


We'll Always Have Paris, Book IV

by ProfessorFrankly



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-04
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-11-17 17:12:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorFrankly/pseuds/ProfessorFrankly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Irene settle into parenthood, but their domesticity is interrupted when John is kidnapped. What now?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John goes missing

**Author's Note:**

> This will be the first chapter in the fourth book of the Paris verse. I will be posting chapters on weekends until it's done. Quite a lot of this story is finished already, so it should be updated regularly while I finish it.
> 
> Thanks to those of you who are following me.
> 
> I own nothing. :)

John Watson, M.D., thought his life to be just about perfect. He had a beautiful fiance, an excellent sex life, a satisfying job, and a fun hobby.

His best friend had a beautiful wife, a gorgeous daughter, and fine professional career.

In John’s opinion, life couldn’t get much better. When he added in the fact that he and Mary had a wedding planned for next weekend … well, that was just cream on strawberries. All he was in charge of was showing up, and planning the honeymoon. He had in his possession two cruise tickets to Italy. Well, actually, his friend Irene had them. She thought they’d be safer in her home safe then on his person, at least until after the wedding.

She was probably right. Irene Holmes often was.

He also took her advice and got the all-inclusive package, so that all he and Mary had to worry about while on their honeymoon was how to find their cabin. 

Where he planned to spend most of their time, personally. Perhaps creating the next generation of Watsons.

John left the tube station and headed for the street. He turned down the alley near Bart’s, on his way to his office.

Then everything went black.  
…

Sherlock Holmes, the world’s greatest (and only) consulting detective, examined the contents of his daughter’s diaper with the magnifying glass he kept on his person at all times. 

“What are you doing, Sherlock?” Irene asked, cuddling their girl, who was fussing a little bit.

“I am trying to determine what we fed her that led to this seriously smelly mess,” Sherlock said. “Her digestive tract can’t seriously be outputting this from breast milk.”

Irene laughed, soothing Elena by rocking her slightly. “I’m afraid so, Sherlock. It will be some time before she can eat real food and produce less smelly messes.”

“Hmmm.” Sherlock snapped his glass shut, shoved it back in his pocket, and wrapped the diaper in a plastic bag before shoving it in the diaper bin. “You, my girl, need to regulate your digestive system in a better fashion,” he said, waving a finger in his daughter’s face. Elena’s eyes followed the finger solemnly, and Sherlock couldn’t resist; he took her from Irene. Holding her with one hand behind her head and the other one under her now clean-and-fresh bottom, he talked directly to her. “Miss Holmes, I expect a degree of brilliance from you, you know. Your mother is exceedingly clever, and I’m not so bad, so I expect that you shall be the best of both of us.”

Elena continued to look at him calmly, as if she knew and agreed with everything he was saying.

Irene sighed. “Please don’t set such high expectations for a six-week old infant, Sherlock,” she admonished him. “She’ll get a complex before she can talk.”

Sherlock chuckled, the deep sound in his chest making his daughter smile at him. “Look, she’s smiling,” he said. “She knows I’m right about how clever she is.”

“No, Sherlock, she’s not smiling, that’s gas.” Elena burped, spitting up on herself and splashing her father in the process. “See?”

“Something more than gas, apparently,” Sherlock said calmly, then brought her back over to the changing table, where he laid her in the convex pad on top of it and reached for a burping cloth. “You like getting the best of your father, don’t you, lovey?”

Irene watched as Sherlock deftly cleaned the front of Elena’s gown, determined it wouldn’t do, then changed her into a light romper and tossed his own shirt in the hamper. He competently picked up his child again, tossed her a bit on his shoulder with the burp cloth, and was rewarded with another burp--this time in its rightful place on the cloth. “That ought to do it, I think,” Irene commented, as Sherlock tenderly wiped his baby girl’s face and handed her back to her mother. 

They had established a routine over the past weeks, as Irene had healed and they learned how to care for a newborn. This week marked Elena’s actual due date, and as she had been clever enough not to have the usual problems premature babies had--their doctors, Christine and John, foresaw the distinct possibility of premature delivery and had Irene on meds to help Elena’s lungs develop more completely--she was thriving. Irene had elected to breastfeed, wanting her daughter to have all the advantages of her immune system, and she also wanted the complete mothering experience. Irene had never thought to have the dearest wish of her heart granted. She’d been told over the years that it would be impossible to have a child of her own.

But the doctors had been wrong. She and Sherlock had made an impossibly beautiful child. And despite complications, Irene had managed to hold Elena in her body just long enough.

With Elena’s birth, Irene had become a human feeding machine. Elena’s little body couldn’t take in much nourishment at a time, so that meant frequent feedings. Which mean frequent diapers. She and Sherlock had developed a routine. They both got up when Elena needed feeding; Irene did the feeding and Sherlock did the changing and burping. Then they all went back to sleep. Irene had put herself on maternity leave indefinitely--her clients could still reach her by phone in a crisis--so the routine worked very well.

Sherlock’s clients didn’t quite understand the concept of paternity leave, and, at any rate, crimes and investigations wouldn’t take a holiday just because he had a new baby he wanted to spend time with. But, then again, Sherlock didn’t seem to need as much sleep as the average person. And in the event of a serious investigation requiring all his time and energy, arrangements had been made with Mrs. Hudson to help with baby care.

So far, they’d been lucky. Most the clients had been of the “boring!” and “leave!” sort. 

And Irene had news for Sherlock today. Christine had cleared them for sex.

The couple, who hadn’t gone more than a week without tearing off each other’s clothes since they first started tearing off each other’s clothes, had been suffering from the lack of sex since their daughter was born. Irene had healed fairly quickly from what had been a remarkably easy delivery, considering the complications of her pregnancy, and though new parenthood made them both sleepy, the wait for the all-clear from the doctor had been a long one. 

Watching a shirtless Sherlock tend his baby girl made Irene hot. She couldn’t help it. That the great, brainy man could be so tender, while losing nothing of his intellectual quirks, was a surprise that she continually loved. His well defined pectoral muscles and abs didn’t hurt her feelings, either. When added to the electric blue eyes he trained on her as often as possible, well, Irene was feeling a bit deprived. 

So part two of her surprise was the arrangement for Mrs. Hudson to babysit for Elena for the evening so that her parents could get reacquainted. Christine suggested using birth control from this point on, so Irene had quietly taken a shot that would prevent pregnancy for six months.

Irene couldn’t wait to have her way with her husband.

Still, as she watched Sherlock lay their now-snoozing child in her bassinet, she felt washed with another emotion that she’d too rarely had in her life: love, and security. Her best wish for her daughter was that she never know a life without either of those things, as her mother had.

Sherlock came over to their bed to sit by Irene, putting an arm around her shoulders. “Tired, Woman?” He noted the shadows under her eyes and the paleness of her skin.

“A bit, but I suspect all new parents are. I plan to nap with Elena today as much as possible, because we have plans this evening.” Irene said it lightly, but Sherlock’s attention was diverted instantly.

“What plans?”

“Mrs. Hudson will babysit for us tonight so that you and I can get reacquainted,” Irene smiled as she said it.

“I’m fairly well acquainted with you now,” Sherlock said playfully. 

“Yes, but I mean...we can have dinner, together, if you’d like.” Irene peeked out at him from under her dark lashes, her blue eyes full of mischief.

“Really?” Sherlock looked her over. “You sure you’re up to that?”

“It seems I’m very, very hungry.”

“Well, then, who am I to refuse a beautiful woman?” Sherlock tipped her head up and kissed her. “I’d love to have dinner with you. Among other things.”

“Good. It’s settled.” Irene looked at their sleeping daughter, then back at Sherlock. “Unless you’d like to have dinner right now. Elena’s sleeping … you’re here … I’m here …”

“And you’re tired,” Sherlock said, smiling. “I can wait until tonight, when you’re a bit more rested.”

Irene leaned forward and purposely let her robe slip off the one shoulder, revealing the top of one of her breasts. “Are you sure? I’m not that tired.”

Sherlock’s eyes rested on her face, and though he glanced down--he was human, after all--he looked back up into her eyes. He lowered his face to hers, and began to kiss her, slowly. 

She responded in kind, content to let heat build between them again. He deepened the kiss, and she hummed with contentment.

“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson shouted from the common hall. “You’ve got a visitor. Didn’t you hear the bell?”

Sherlock kissed Irene for a full ten seconds longer, hating to let her go.

“Sherlock!”

He rolled his eyes and released his wife. “Fine,” he muttered. “But it better be seriously important.”

Irene laughed, and she curled up in their bed with a pillow. “If it’s boring, come back. If it’s not, come back anyway. We could have a quickie while the baby’s sleeping.”

Sherlock grinned at her, found a shirt, tossed it on, and went out to the sitting room. Mrs. Hudson was wringing her hands. “It’s Inspector Lestrade, Sherlock. He says it’s urgent, or I wouldn’t have bothered you.”

“It’s fine, Mrs. Hudson.” It’s not the end of the world, he thought, it’s just Mrs. Hudson. “If he says it’s urgent, it’s undoubtedly urgent.” Sherlock stepped into the hall. “Come up, Lestrade!”

Lestrade bounded up the stairs. “I hated to disturb you, with the new baby, and all, but I knew you’d want in on this case.”

“Oh?”

“It’s John. He’s been kidnapped.”

All of Sherlock’s senses honed in on that phrase, and the cheerful, tender father and lover of a moment ago disappeared under the mask of the calculating machine. “Where, when, how? Details.”

“On his way to work at Bart’s, in the back alley. His briefcase was left behind, papers spilling out. I preserved the scene for you and came as quick as I could.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “I’m coming. Let me tell Irene.” He strode to his bedroom with purpose, and Irene sat up. One glance at his face told her they would be putting off dinner. 

“What is it? What’s happened, Sherlock?”

“John’s been kidnapped. Lestrade’s taking me to the scene. I can give you more details as I have them. I could use your brain.”

“It’s yours, Sherlock, as you know.” Irene glanced at Elena. “I can dress now if you want me to come. We can see if Mrs. Hudson wants to keep Elena for a few hours. She’s just been fed, so she ought to be down that long.”

Sherlock hesitated, a rare thing for him. If Irene came along and something happened to both of them, Elena would have no parents. But if Irene didn’t come along and he missed something, John could pay for it. If Sherlock went alone, with Lestrade …

“Yes, if Mrs. Hudson can watch Elena, I’d like you to come. Bring your revolver. May not need it, but I’d rather be safe.”

“I’ll be out in a second.”

Sherlock grabbed his suit jacket and headed back to the sitting room. “Irene’s coming, too. She’s got an excellent set of eyes and a clever brain. Mrs. Hudson, could you keep an eye on Elena for us? She should sleep for a few hours right now.”

“Of course, of course,” Mrs. Hudson gestured to him. “I’ve got it handled.”

“Reset the security when we leave, please,” Sherlock said. He didn’t need his coat, but he swirled it on anyway, instantly feeling more like the detective. Irene came out their bedroom door as he swirled, and he noted in a glance that she was ready for detective work, in trousers, blouse, jacket and sensible shoes. Her dark red hair was tucked back into a messy bun.

“Ready,” she said. “Thanks, Una, for watching Elena.”

“Not at all, not at all. Go find John.”


	2. Looking for John

The couple followed Lestrade down to the waiting, unmarked police vehicle. They took off for Bart’s, and Sherlock steepled. 

Who would want to kidnap John?

Why would someone kidnap John?

To what possible purpose would his kidnapping be put?

Has anybody talked to Mary yet?

How was the deed done?

“Has anyone been in touch with a ransom demand?” Sherlock asked out loud.

“No, but we have a witness. Witness states that John walked into the alley to the back door by his office, as usual, then two figures dressed in black dashed out from behind those bins there, bashed him on the back of the head, caught him as he went down, and bundled him into a car and the end of the alley there.” Lestrade read from his note book. “Doesn’t look like robbery.”

“Tell me nothing more until after I see the crime scene.”

“Got it.” Lestrade closed his notebook. “Mrs. Holmes, how is Miss Holmes?”

Irene smiled her brilliant smile. “The apple of her parents’ eyes, of course. Thank you for asking, Detective Inspector.”

Silence reigned in the car until they pulled up to the crime scene. Sherlock popped out of the car and into the alley, completely ignoring Sally Donovan. Irene followed him. Donovan stopped her. “Who are you? What are you doing with the freak?”

Irene looked her up and down, icy dismissal in her eyes. “I am Mrs. Holmes, and his partner on this investigation.” She dipped under the tape, leaving an astonished Donovan in her wake.

“Did she say ‘Mrs. Holmes’?” Donovan asked Lestrade. “The freak got married?”

Lestrade looked at her coolly. “I’m really tired of that moniker for Sherlock, Donovan. He’s brilliant. And yes, he’s married. They just had a baby, and he’s being very choosy about helping us these days. But forJohn, he’d go anywhere. And Mrs. Holmes is as brilliant as he, so if she’s interested in helping, I’m not going to say no. So step back, Sally, and let them work.”

Donovan said nothing, but backed away from Lestrade, holding the tape for him as he ducked under.

Irene made a mental note to ask about Donovan later. Anyone who felt strongly enough about her husband to call him names deserved her attention. She followed Sherlock down the alley, and stopped when he did. 

Sherlock took in the scene. Men’s boots, size 10 by the footprint. Nearly six foot, but not quite. Black fibers from disguises. Blood on the pavement. Just splashing. Ah, bashing weapon. Sock full of pound coins, left behind. Clearly not a kidnapping for money. Too much blood on sock, John’s. What did he do? What do they want with him? Organized. Prepared to take advantage of his routine. Sherlock wandered down the alley, following the boot tracks, now two sets, both size 10, to men of differing heights. Off road tires. Deep treads. Military vehicle. Sherlock sat back on his heels, having had a thought. Never did find out why Moran was contracted to kill John. Made assumptions, not confirmed. Stupid, stupid.

“I need to interview Sebastian Moran,” Sherlock told Irene.

“You think this is related to the attempt on John’s life?” Irene looked around her as well. “Military hit?”

“Clearly. Too well organized, not interested in money if they use a sock full of pound coins to bash him over the head and leave it behind. Military vehicle. What has John been up to that would gain him this kind of attention?” The last was said more as a rhetorical question, but Irene took it at face value.

“Research of some kind? Something that goes back to Afghanistan?”

“Perhaps.”

Sherlock snapped on gloves and picked up plastic bags from Lestrade, who remained silent as Sherlock picked up fibers, mud, and the sock. “We’ll need to test these things to find clues as to where they might have taken John. I’m also going to need his military records, and I’ll need to interview Moran. We caught him in the act of trying to kill John, but I, at least, never asked why. I just assumed it had something to do with his association with me. But I need to ask now.”

Lestrade nodded. “I’ll let forensics back in to photograph the scene.”

“I’m going to Bart’s first with these samples, see if I can dig up a location. Irene, will you go along and talk to Mary? See if she knows anything. You’re better at the people thing than I am. Lestrade, can you set up an interview with Moran for me?”

“I’m on it,” Lestrade said, taking his phone out of his pocket and hitting a series of numbers, then walking away with it on his ear.

“School’s not out just yet, Sherlock,” Irene said quietly. “Shall I go there to talk to Mary? I believe it’s her last day for a while, as she’s supposed to be getting married a week from tomorrow. But that’s where she’ll be.”

“Someone ought to inform her that John’s missing. She might know something more about his military past than I do; it’s the kind of thing lovers talk about, versus friends. Draw her out if you can.” Sherlock paused, holding a hand to his eyes. “See if she wants to go back to Baker Street with you. You’ll need to go home and feed Elena by the time you’re done.”

“Yes,” Irene leaned forward and touched his face. He captured her hand and squeezed it lightly. “Take care of yourself.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said. He kissed her fingertips, grinned at her, and disappeared into Bart’s.

Irene paused in the alley for a minute longer, looking around to see if she could spot anything else. She didn’t, but she did see other young female detective--the one who called her husband a “freak,” looking on with a sort of awed expression on her face. A disgruntled, awed expression.

Interesting. Unless Irene’s intuition was way off, the young detective probably made a pass at Sherlock at one point and got rebuffed. Rudely.

Irene smiled a slow, cat-like smile, and sauntered back up the alley, turning on a bit of her natural charisma, just for fun. Lestrade caught a glance and stopped talking, gulped, and deliberately turned his back on her. Good for you, Detective Inspector, Irene thought. Not going to ogle a friend’s wife.

The show wasn’t for him, anyway, she thought. It’s for the young detective, to show her what Sherlock really liked.

She paused by the young detective. “I didn’t get your name, dear,” Irene purred. 

“Sergeant Sally Donovan.” Sally looked at Irene coolly.

“Always good to know the names of the local force,” Irene said. She smiled the cold smile of the dominatrix, and moved on to Lestrade, dialing it down a bit to make it easier on the poor man. “I’ll be taking a cab to Mary’s school, Bridge School, to talk with her. I’ll tell her about all this and see if she can shed any light on the cause of the kidnapping. I’ll report back what I know as soon as I can, to you and to Sherlock, but I’ll have to go to Baker Street soon to feed Elena. She’ll be needing me.”

“Thanks, Irene,” Lestrade said, sincerely. Irene favored him with a warm smile, then headed down to catch a cab.


	3. Of Mud, Molly and Moran

Sherlock let himself into Molly’s lab. She wasn’t present, which was slightly disappointing. Molly also possessed a clever brain, and she could handle some of these analyses if she had time. 

Never mind, Sherlock told himself. I’ll start with the fibers and the mud. 

He settled down to work, keeping the problem of motive in one corner of his brain while he busily separated and analyzed the different parts of the mud, and set the fibers under scope for matches.

What did he know about John’s military service?

He was an army doctor invalided out of Afghanistan.

He helped people as a doctor, but had “bad days” in which he killed people.

He was a crack shot with nerves of steel, as Sherlock had more than enough reason to know. John had saved Sherlock’s life more than once with his uncanny marksmanship.

Stupid, Sherlock thought to himself. It’s clear that John was more than an army doctor. Although army doctors likely got weapons training, just on the off, John likely had advanced weapons training and top flight service training in addition to his medical training.

Which likely meant that John had been a member of some sort of special forces unit, expected to fight, kill and carry out missions as well as doctor the members of his unit and his team.

Traumatic invaliding, indeed, to have such a purpose taken away from you.

The Fifth Northumberland Fusilliers. 

Sherlock distilled the mud, finding pollen that matched the region of Kent, so John couldn’t have gone too far. He also likely needed medical attention. Given the likelihood of military involvement, could he possibly be held at a base? Or is this a rogue group?

Fibers matched the fine wool of British combat dress. Military looking more and more likely. 

What did John know, and why did they want him eliminated?

Must talk to Moran.

“New case, Sherlock?” Molly’s soft voice intruded.

“Yes, John’s missing. I think this mud points us to a military base in Kent.” Sherlock pulled out his phone and started searching for a fit.

“Connacht Barracks, Dover.” Sherlock looked up.

“How do you know, Molly?”

She smiled at him. “It’s where my brother was stationed. I don’t know what John would be doing there. It’s a parachute training camp. But that’s the only base in Kent that I know about.” 

Sherlock looked at her. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

Molly shrugged.

“Thanks, Molly,” Sherlock said. He paused for a second, then pulled out his wallet. Inside, he had several pictures of Elena, ready for presenting or handing out. Irene had insisted. He pulled one out and handed it to Molly. “Thought you’d like to see.”

“Oh, Sherlock, she’s beautiful.” Molly traced a fingertip over the solemn little face with the bright blue eyes. “You’re so lucky.”

“I know it.” Molly tried to hand it back, but Sherlock refused it. “It’s for you. I thought you’d like to see one of the more positive things to come out of your helping me last year.”

Molly smiled at him. “Thank you.” She looked at the other tests he was running. “Why don’t I finish these for you? You can be on your way to the next step in the puzzle. I’ll text you if I find anything else.”

“You’re a treasure, Molly,” Sherlock said, giving her a warm smile before swirling on his coat and heading back out the door.  
…

Irene got out of the cab at the Bridge School and went inside, starting at the principal’s office. Feeling very uncomfortable. School had not been her favorite place. She stopped in the main office and asked for Miss Morstan.

“She’s in classroom 102, but I’m afraid you can’t disturb her there. It will disturb the children she’s working with this morning if they see a stranger at the door. Is it important?”

“Yes, I’m afraid. Miss Morstan’s fiance has gone missing, and I need to both tell her about it and see if she can help us find him.” Irene put her best professional face forward, softening it with a warm smile. “She’s also a dear friend of mine, and I thought it best to come here myself rather than allowing the detective inspectors to come in my place.” Irene produced her identification, and the assistant at the desk “tutted.” 

“I’ll send word down with one of our teaching assistants, a familiar one, that she’s needed in the office. I’ll also find staff to cover her classes for the rest of the day. It’s a shame, really, because we planned a little cake-and-punch party this afternoon to say goodbye to her for the term.” The young lady phoned another office, related the message, and started the ball rolling to bring Mary up to the office.

It took about fifteen minutes, but Irene finally saw Mary go past the open windows of the main office and enter the main lobby space. “Irene!” Mary exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

The young assistant gestured to a conference room behind her desk. “Why don’t you two go in there?”

Mary and Irene let themselves into the room, and Irene shut the door behind them. “Mary, I’m sorry to tell you this, but John’s been kidnapped. He’s been missing since he arrived at Bart’s this morning, but

Lestrade and Sherlock are on top of it.”

Mary’s face whitened. “Kidnapped? Are they certain?”

Irene nodded. “They have an eyewitness. Sherlock’s working out who and where, in hopes of rescuing him. Meanwhile, I have to ask if you know of anyone who might wish John harm.”

Mary thought a bit. “John doesn’t talk much about his past,” she said. “It’s painful to him. He did good work, he said once, and I believe that. But his military service is a closed book.” She took a deep breath. “What does Sherlock think?”

“Sherlock is leaning toward military involvement. He thinks there may be a link to Moran, and the hit contracted on John this winter, just before we met you. He’s kicking himself for not further investigating the ‘why’ of that case, and relying on his own assumptions as to motive. He’s trying to get in to interview Moran today.” Irene paused. “Mary, there’s every reason to believe that John is alive. If they’d wanted him dead, they wouldn’t have taken him. Knifed him or shot him, left him in the alley, yes. But he knows something that they want to know now, so they’re not going to risk his life just yet.”

Mary closed her eyes for a second, then opened them to look into Irene’s. “I am marrying John next Saturday. Nothing will stop that. Sherlock will see to it, won’t he?”

I hope so, Irene thought. “Absolutely.”

“Well, then, I’ll keep thinking about this, and I’ll go to Baker Street after school, if that’s all right. They’re having a do for me today, and I hate to disappoint them here.” Mary stood briskly. “You’ll keep me posted?”

“Of course, Mary,” Irene said, marvelling--not for the first time--at the strength in the tiny package that was Mary Morstan. She hugged Mary, and the two parted, Mary for her classroom, Irene for a cab home to Baker Street.

Mary says John didn’t discuss military service. “closed book.” Trusts you to find him. xx TW

Sherlock, waiting in the lobby area of Pentonville Prison,  looked at Irene’s message and frowned. “Closed book.” Sherlock thought a second, and texted back.

We’ll have to open the book. SH

He thought another second, then sent a text to Mycroft.

John’s missing. Need his military records. SH

“Mr. Holmes?” A guard stepped into the room. “We’re ready for you now.”

Sherlock followed the guard into a small gray conference room with two-way glass. Lestrade had secured for him a relatively private space for the interview, and promised to be watching and recording what was said.

Moran sat at the table, handcuffed to the table, which was bolted to the floor. Sherlock lifted his face in a half smile, then sat down across from him. “Well, Sebastian. How are they treating you in here?”

“I don’t have to talk to you,” Moran snarled back.

“Of course you don’t. But you might like to. I hear they’re not allowing you any privileges at all here. Murder and attempted murder, and all that. But I might be able to change that.”

Moran sneered at him. “You don’t have the power or the stones.”

“Oh, I do. Who wanted John Watson dead?”

“Oh, I did, of course, for sabotaging what was left of my network.” Moran looked at his fingernails. “But I’ve since found out that was you, all along, so of course, I’ll be working on that problem in here.”

“Tremendously ambitious of you,” Sherlock said coldly. “Who else wanted John Watson dead? There could be telly privileges in it for you. You could catch up on EastEnders.”

Moran sneered again. “Doesn’t matter, really. Just an old whisper from Afghanistan that suggested there might be money in finishing him off. Since I wanted to, anyway, wasn’t really a problem.”

“And did the whisper have a name?” Sherlock intoned, carefully watching Moran’s body language. 

“Some desert prince. I thought I’d find him when I’d done the deed, and since I didn’t, well, it wasn’t relevant.”

Sherlock was very sure that Moran knew more than that, but sensed he was at the end of his cooperation. “That’s all you know. Desert prince?”

“Yeah, well, I was a bit busy with all that sabotage to pay much attention.” Moran yawned. 

“Who would know?”

“Time’s up, Sherlock. Make sure I get telly privileges tonight, will you?” Moran tapped on the table. “I’m done with this conversation.”

Sherlock wished he could simply beat the man into giving more information, but that was frowned upon in these establishments. Wouldn’t want the criminals losing their rights.

“Not enough for telly privileges, I’m afraid, but if you choose to play the bonus round, have the warden get in touch with me.” Sherlock rose and started for the door.

“Wait!” Moran said. “I might know more.”

“Ah, desperate for your daily fix, are you?” Sherlock turned back and faced him.

“I don’t know the guy’s name, really. But I heard it was cos John Watson killed his son.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that. Moran continued. “Some special operation in Afghanistan.”

“Now that’s useful,” Sherlock said. “I believe you might get your EastEnders after all.”


	4. Back to Afghanistan?

Irene sat in the rocking chair they’d installed in the sitting room, nursing Elena. Her busy little girl had her eyes half-closed with the ecstasy of eating. She loved this time she spent with her, rocking gently, knowing she was the only one who could tend this little lovey in quite this way.

Mrs. Hudson entered the sitting room quietly, bearing a package with a royal seal. “This just arrived, Michele,” she said. “It’s addressed to Mr. or Mrs. Holmes.”

Irene shifted Elena to her other breast, then gestured to Mrs. Hudson. “Let me see it.” Mrs. Hudson handed it into Irene’s free hand, and Irene looked it over. She didn’t quite have Sherlock’s eye for such things, but she could see it had a legitimate seal, was addressed by a man, and had no postage, which meant it had been delivered by special messenger. She could tell by the feel of the package that it contained a file of some kind. “Go ahead and open it up for me, Una,” she said, handing it back to her.

Mrs. Hudson slit it open with Sherlock’s pen knife, and pulled out a fat file folder with a note clipped to the front. “The note says, ‘Per request, John’s military records. M.’”

“Ah, Sherlock’s been busy,” Irene said. Elena detached herself and gave a small burp. “Good girl.” Irene tucked herself away, threw a burp cloth over her shoulder, and held Elena up to her shoulder to bounce her a bit so she could get rid of any gas. She was rewarded with another, bigger burp, and Irene then placed Elena in the small bouncy seat she’d picked up. It had lots of small things for Elena to look at and grab. As

Elena got older, she’d be able to pick out which ones made noise or did things when she touched them.

Elena already was staying awake longer between feedings, looking around and checking things out more. Irene smiled at her baby girl as she fastened the straps on the bouncy seat. She started some of the toys swinging, and Elena’s eyes immediately snapped to the movement. “There you are, my girl. Make something of that while I look at these papers,” Irene said lovingly.

She picked up the file folder and opened it. 

The file seemed awfully fat for an army doctor. It contained listings of his postings and assignments, and as Irene read through it, she began to mark, with small sticky notes, pages she thought Sherlock would want to see.

John served as part of an elite squad, one that moved in small rescue missions. He’d been trained to move in as a soldier and fulfill the mission, whatever the cost, and treat the rescuee enroute to the base. His training in emergency medicine came in very handy, and his records as an expert marksman impressed Irene.

Additionally, she noted in his files the number of confirmed kills. For a medical man, he’s been used in combat a lot, and on several missions had been forced to kill the final guard of the person to be rescued in order to complete the rescue. It was real, important work he’d been doing.

John was wounded in his last mission. As the last man in to rescue a young, female aid worker, he caught her captor in the act of rape. He killed the captor, rescuing the young woman, but was shot on the way out.

He passed the woman to his company, bleeding from that wound and other, smaller ones, and barely made it to the aid station, where he’d been airlifted to Dubai. They’d patched him in hospital, and sent him to London to recover.

The combination of physical and emotional wounds had taken a toll, however, and experts determined he was no longer fit for his work. That had been more of a wound than John realized, until he’d met Sherlock.

An active, busy, and useful life did more for John than anything.

Elena’s whimpers, prelude to a full-fledged cry for attention, caught Irene’s ear. She’d been engrossed in her reading, and Elena wanted her mother to play some more. Irene sent the mobile items flying again, and Elena quieted, watching them.

Irene’s text alert beeped.

Mud traced to barracks in Kent. Might go. News? SH

Irene thought.

John part of elite rescue squad. Killed several. Last one worst; got wounded. Have records here. TW

Beep.

Look for desert royalty. Price on John’s head. SH

Irene’s eyebrows rose, and she went back into the records, using her sticky notes for reference. It took her about 10 minutes.

Faroud Al-Hassain. John caught him in the act of rape and killed him. Father is prince. TW

Beep.

Bingo. Be home soon to recap. SH

Irene sent more toys swinging for Elena, and set the file down. Best to make a pot of tea and make sure Sherlock got some lunch. It would be a long day.   
…

Sherlock bounded into 221B, setting Elena’s lower lip quivering. “Oh, hello, lovey,” Sherlock bent down, unstrapped her, and picked her up to nuzzle. “Daddy didn’t mean to scare you.”

“We’ve got lunch here, Sherlock. Sit, and we’ll eat before you go off to Kent. The file’s on the desk there. I’ve sticky noted passages I think are relevant, but the last case is the most important.” Irene set out roast beef sandwiches, crisps, and uncapped bottled water. Sherlock settled in at the table, cradling Elena in his left arm and reaching for the water with the other. He guzzled it. “Hot work this morning?”

“Interviewed Moran and distilled mud. Can’t go in guns blazing to a military base. But I’m almost certain that’s where the kidnappers came from. Question is whether they’d go back there. I don’t think this was a military-sanctioned kidnapping.” Sherlock bounced Elena in his lap and reached for half of the sandwich. 

“Not likely. It looks like Al-Hussain’s father put a price on John’s head when he found out who on the squad actually did kill his son.” Irene picked up her sandwich and bit in, too.

They ate in silence for a moment, Sherlock bouncing Elena absently. It soothed her, and apparently helped him to think, because he realized something.

“We’ve got military from Kent kidnapping former military for the price on his head. Not smart to make assumptions, but I keep coming back to the sock full of pound coins. Why waste that? If you’re willing to kill for money, you’re not going to give it away.”

“Lestrade tracked the coins down. They were withdrawn from a bank on the Strand yesterday from an account that was immediately closed.”

“Obviously.”

“But Lestrade hasn’t been idle, either, Sherlock. He got the name of the account holder. It might have been an alias, though it would have had to have been a good one. We know one or two people who can do such good alias work. It also might not have been.”

Sherlock’s antenna perked up. “Name?”

“Brian Sullivan, military address.”

“Kent?”

“Kent.”

“Well, that’s boring.”

“Not the half of it, Sherlock. Still doesn’t tell us where John is, just tells us who is abductor likely is and where his abductor came from.”

“I still see a visit to Kent in my very near future,” Sherlock said, polishing off his sandwich. “I’d prefer to take you along, but …”

“I’m not sure when you’d be back, and I need to stay for Elena’s sake,” Irene finished his sentence. 

“Can you do something for me while I’m gone?” Sherlock asked.

“Of course. What?”

“Make a short list of possible guardians for Elena? Our lives still feature some danger. I’d hate to see her fall into the hands of some unscrupulous people.”

Irene smiled. “I thought of that months ago. I’m thinking John and Mary. Otherwise, I suppose, it will have to be Mycroft, and I would imagine years of nannies and boarding schools in her future.”

“Not that she wouldn’t be loved,” Sherlock observed. “Just not his priority.”

“No, not with the whole of the British government on his shoulders.”

“Which puts her care in the control of people we don’t know, again.”

“Yes. And as she’s likely to be a beauty, Sherlock, I have to confess the thought of her being with anyone but us or John and Mary makes my skin crawl. I need her to be with people we know and absolutely trust.” Irene shuddered for a minute, thinking about her own, abusive early childhood. Sherlock thought about it too, and suddenly became fiercely angry and protective. Elena squawled as Sherlock squeezed her just a little bit too tightly.

“Oh, sorry, lovey, so sorry,” Sherlock loosened his grip and held her to his chest, bouncing her lightly. “Daddy loves you.”

“You see the problem,” Irene said quietly.

“I do, quite, quite clearly.” Sherlock cleared his throat, hugged his daughter, and handed her to her mother. “First I have to find her godfather. I’ll be off to Kent.”

“At least contact Lestrade, fill him in, and have him come with you,” Irene asked. 

“Already did. He should be here right about now.” The bell buzzed downstairs. “There, you see?” Sherlock leaned down and kissed Irene softly, then kissed Elena’s forehead. “I’m off.”

 


	5. Closing in

Sherlock and Lestrade strode onto the grounds of the Connacht Barracks with all the authority Scotland Yard and the British government could give them. Their first stop? The quarters of Brian Sullivan, conveniently on leave. Lestrade checked with his neighbors and comrades, looking for a close mate, and Sherlock investigated Sullivan’s living space, looking for clues to John’s whereabouts.

Sullivan was absent, and his quarters were military immaculate. Everything had its place. A quick peek through Sullivan’s drawers revealed civilian clothes were missing--socks, underwear, t-shirts, jeans. His telephone book had nothing marked, but the cache history on his laptop internet browser proved to be useful. Sullivan had researched camping sites in the greater U.K. He’d bookmarked one in Rutland. Sherlock noted the location and dialed the number on his smart phone.

“Yes, sorry to disturb you, but I’m looking for a mate of mine, Brian Sullivan? There’s a bit of an emergency at home and he seems to have left his phone off. Can you tell me if he’s there and give him a message for me?” Sherlock listened as the proprietor of the site looked him up. “Oh, good, he made it there. You know what? I’ll just come up. It’s a short drive. Which site is he in again? 31? Wonderful, thanks.”

Sherlock smiled his cold smile and met Lestrade on the parade ground.

“Rutland KOA, just outside Mowbray, site 31.” Sherlock paused. “You?”

“Mates with Kerry Shaw. Both of them went on leave together this weekend. Both known to gamble. Maybe they needed the cash? Maybe they dropped the sock and botched it? No one knows of a third man. But Shaw has a girlfriend he regularly visits.” Lestrade flipped his notebook closed. “Going to Mowbray, are we?”

“As quick as we can.”  
…

_Closing in. Don’t wait up. We’ll have dinner when I get home. SH_

Which could be tomorrow, Irene sighed. She looked up at Mary, who, as promised, had come to Baker Street after school. “He says they’re closing in.”  
…

John came to slowly, a crushing pain in his head alerting him to the likelihood of concussion. He tried to raise a hand to his head, only to discover he was handcuffed to something, likely some kind of cot. He opened his eyes, noting the double vision as his eyes swam into focus on--hang on, is that a tent roof?

He tried to focus, and he determined that, indeed, he was lying on a cot in what looked like an old army tent. 

Distantly, as through a long tunnel, he could hear two blokes arguing.

“He wasn’t supposed to be injured that badly,” one voice said. “And you dropped a couple hundred quid on the ground when you should have saved it. What an idiot!”

“Well, I needed to hit him hard so that he’d go down. You saw the file. Advanced hand-to-hand training, advanced weapons training.”

“Yeah, well, if he ever wakes up he can treat himself. We’re to deliver him alive to the Sheik’s agent in London tomorrow.”

“Yeah, so why are we up here in the middle of nowhere again?”

“Because London’s too hot. This guy’s mates with Sherlock Holmes.”

“Wait, thought he was dead?”

“Well, guess not, cos he was spotted in the alley not an hour after we bashed this guy.”

“Shit!”

John thought, hooray, the cavalry’s coming.

“Well, he can’t trace us. No one knows who we were. We wore our cammies and masks.”

Idiots, John thought. That’s like a big, pulsing red flag pointing to military. And they dropped a sack of pound coins? I’ll be out of here before morning.

The fact that he could think clearly was a good thing. The fact that he could feel matted blood above his ear was not. That spot was a bad one to be bashed in. It could lead to walk-and-die syndrome if he was hemmoraging into his brain. 

Best to stay alert if possible. Focus on something. Mary and the wedding.

She’d be wearing white. He had a dove gray tuxedo, and he’d ordered one for Sherlock, too. Irene would be wearing pale blue, and Elena would be matching her. The wedding would be in St. James, and the reception at the hall nearby. They ordered beef or vegan lasagne for their dinner entrees. The cake was chocolate and raspberry with buttercream frosting. They were going straight to Italy on a cruise afterward to start trying to make babies. Babies with Mary. He couldn’t wait.  
But things were doubling on him again, so he closed his eyes and started going through old cases in his head, searching for additional clues, telling the stories as if they were happening.

Sherlock was on the way, John thought.  
…

In fact, Sherlock was closer than John thought at that moment, approaching the camp site in an unmarked squad with Lestrade. He’d said very little as they traveled north from London, thinking about the secondary importance of keeping John safe after he was rescued and his kidnappers arrested. How to do it? Sherlock glanced sideways at Lestrade.

Would Lestrade cooperate with something slightly outside the law? Such as passing off one of the kidnappers as John to their contact?

Something to think about.

Lestrade stopped the vehicle just outside the campsite, and Sherlock noted the single army tent, fire ring, and picnic table, which held the remnants of someone’s dinner. They approached the tent quietly, hearing raised voices inside. 

“No one told us he was mates with Holmes!”

“Well, yeah, apparently that’s why no one’s suicidal enough to try him.”

“I should never have listened to you. You thought it would be easy, a way to make a little extra and pay off the bookies. Instead, we’ve got a man with a serious head wound, like to die on our hands, and bloody Sherlock Holmes tracking us down. We should just give up and shoot ourselves in the heads now.”

Sherlock stepped into the tent opening, his long figure casting a deep shadow. His revolver pointed directly at them. “That’s extremely good advice, but I think the Detective Inspector, here, will settle for arresting you on charges of kidnapping and attempted murder. What do you think, Lestrade?”

“I think these boys will be going away for a long, long, time.” Lestrade stepped forward, through the opening, and clapped handcuffs on each man in turn. He recited the standard warnings, and with Sherlock’s help, marched them his vehicle and locked them in the back.

When they were secure, Sherlock went back to the tent and unlocked John’s handcuffs. “John, John, John. How many times will I have to rescue you?”

“When your rescues add up to the number of times I’ve saved your life, I’ll let you know,” John said, his words slightly slurred.

“That’s a serious head injury, doctor. Ambulance, or car to the A & E?” 

John reached a slow hand up to the injury on his head, assessing. “Shit. Ambulance.”

Sherlock nodded, ducked out to see Lestrade. “John needs an ambulance.” Lestrade phoned it in, and Sherlock ducked back into the tent. “Can they make these ceilings any shorter?” Sherlock pulled out his phone, took pictures of the interior, and then scrolled to his texting screen to send a note to Irene.

_Got him. Tell Mary. He’s injured. Heading to hospital. Update you when I can. SH_

A moment and a beep.

_Mary says to tell him she loves him. She’ll join you asap. TW_

Sherlock smiled at the screen.

“Well, John, Mary’s well and truly pissed at you for getting your head bashed in a week before the wedding, but it seems she’ll be up to see you as soon as she can. Oh, and she loves you anyway,” Sherlock smirked.

John closed his eyes again. “Really, you’re not all that funny, Sherlock. Where are we, anyway?”

“Campground outside Mowbray. Those two idiots thought they’d turn you in for the price on your head.”

“Since when did I have a price on my head?”

“Since Shiek Al-Hussein discovered it was you who actually put the bullet in his son’s head to end his life,” Sherlock said. “Your last caper, the one that got you invalided out.”

“Can’t talk about that, Sherlock, so I’m surprised you know about it.”

“Yeah, official secrets and all that. Mycroft gave me a bit of information to help find you.” Sherlock heard the wail of the ambulance. “Here’s your ride coming now.”

“Thank God. I would sell my soul for some morphine.”

“And me without my syringes.”

John shot Sherlock a look that cheered Sherlock enormously. The paramedics came into the tent with a gurney, loaded John onto it, and Sherlock followed them out. “Where will we be taking him?”

“St. Christopher’s in Mowbray.”

“There, you see, John? You’re a lost cause.” Sherlock watched as they loaded him in, and police officers joined the scene. “Lestrade, can you manage those two?”

“I’ll dragoon a local and take them in. You go on with John.”

“Got it. Off you go, then,” Sherlock said, and climbed in the ambulance after John.  
…

_St. Christopher’s in Mowbray. SH_

Irene relayed the message, and Mary rose. “I’ll hire a car. It’ll be faster.”

“Want company?” Irene asked.

“I’d love it. Can we bring Elena, too?”

“We’ll have to. I can’t be away from her that long as I’m breastfeeding.”

“I’ll call for a car while you get yourselves ready."

 


	6. Mowbray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Look out--Misbehaving takes place.

The women walked in, Elena in her car seat, to find Sherlock in the waiting area of the emergency department at St. Christopher’s. It had taken them two hours to drive up, but that was quicker than the train at that time of night.

Elena had slept the whole way, and she was still sleeping.

Sherlock rose when he saw them. “They’ve got John back for a CT scan. He was bashed in the temple, good and proper, and while he says that he’ll likely be fine, I insisted they ignore him as a doctor and treat him as a patient. He is NOT pleased with me.”

“When can I see him, do you know?” Mary asked impatiently.  
“He should be back soon. They’re likely to admit him for the night, anyway.” Sherlock kissed Irene. “Hello, woman. Wasn’t expecting you, but I’m glad to see you.” He looked at Elena, still sleeping snugly in her car seat. “How long has she been out?”

“Since we left London,” Irene said. “I’m hoping this is the start of longer sleeping patterns. I’d love that.”

“Me, too.” Sherlock smiled down at his sleeping daughter.

A doctor came in and over to Sherlock. “Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes. And this is Mary Morstan, Dr. Watson’s fiance, and my wife, Mrs. Holmes.”

“Yes, hello. Dr. Watson is a very stubborn patient. In addition to the concussion and skull fracture--which will require surgery, I’m afraid--he has contusions and bruises at wrists and ankles from restraints. He disagrees with the need for surgery, and he’s being quite vocal about it. I’m not altogether certain he’s processing information well enough to make that decision. The skull fracture above his ear has caused some bleeding into the brain, and we need to drain that, and patch his skull.”

“That sounds serious, Doctor,” Mary said slowly. 

“It’s serious enough. If he’ll let us do the repair tonight, I could send him home in a few days to convalesce.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “He’s getting married in a week. Will he be well enough to travel, for his honeymoon?”

The doctor raised an eyebrow. “If he follows post-op instructions, he should be able to manage a wedding. A honeymoon, if it’s not too enthusiastic, should be possible.”

“Cruise to Italy, doctor,” Irene said quietly. “All inclusive.”

“Sounds like just what the doctor ordered.” The doctor laughed at himself. Sherlock made note of his name and affiliation, in case it was necessary in a law suit later. “We’ll do the best we can to make sure your fiance is ready to go, Miss Morstan.”

“Thank you. May I see him?”

“Yes, for a few minutes. Convince him to do the surgery will you? If nothing else, remind him how much more quickly he’ll recover if we remove the bruising. He has a honeymoon to look forward to.”

Mary went back with the doctor to John’s room, and Sherlock and Irene looked at each other, then at Elena. Still sleeping.

“Shall we find a hotel, darling?” Irene asked, very, very quietly.

“Let’s.” Sherlock texted Mary. We leave John in your capable hands. Going to hotel. Text you where later. SH

They left the waiting area and headed for the car, where Sherlock strapped Elena in very, very quietly. He got behind the wheel, and they drove down about three blocks to a mid-range hotel. Irene went in, secured a room with ensuite bath, got their keys, and came back out for the overnight and diaper bags. Sherlock unstrapped Elena, again, very, very quietly. They went into the hotel, and Sherlock settled Elena in her seat on top of the in-room desk, secure against a corner of wall. He backed away slowly, and she was still sleeping. Irene set their bags down, and as he turned to her, she jumped him.

He caught her easily as she wrapped her legs around his middle and held on, kissing him deeply. She felt him come to life under her, and she found herself pressed against the hotel room wall opposite the desk, trapped with his body there while he let his hands roam over her. She bit his neck, pushing his scarf, coat and jacket off to the floor, where they landed with a soft thump. They froze, but Elena slept on. 

Sherlock turned back into her, popping the buttons off her shirt in his haste to get to her breasts. She started slipping down the wall and he lifted her, laying her on their bed and stripping her clothes off her body. She was doing her best to undress him, too, but she couldn’t reach as his hands seemed to blur in their pursuit of her body. Irene writhed under him as he slipped his long fingers into her, bringing her to peak almost instantly. 

He swallowed her scream with his mouth, then shed his pants and plunged into her, keeping his mouth fused to hers to keep her quiet as he rode her. She came again, and he held on as his body ruled him. She started to bunch one more time, and he let himself go as she clenched him in one long orgasm.

He collapsed on her, kissing her again, then letting her go. She couldn’t quite catch her breath, and he obligingly rolled off her, retaining her hand to keep contact with her. Then he sat bolt upright. “Birth control?” he whispered, panicked.

  
“Taken care of yesterday at the doctor’s office. We’re safe for six months. Then we can decide what to do from there.” She whispered it back. 

Sherlock peeked over at Elena, who slept on. “Maybe this is the start of that longer sleep cycle we were promised.”

“She’s been sleeping for three hours now. That’s a record. I’d love to see her go for four, because I could use a nap.” Irene yawned. “It’s late.”

Sherlock looked down at himself. He still had his socks and shoes on, and his shirt hung at a strange angle. Irene was gloriously naked. 

“I think I was in a bit of a hurry,” he said, still whispering. “Sorry about that.”

“No complaints, dear man.” Irene smiled at him, and sat up to stroke his face. “I’m just going to clean up a bit and find a nursing bra to sleep in.”

“I’ll undress, I guess.”

“I brought you a change of clothing and an extra pair of boxers, Sherlock,” Irene whispered. “They’re in the overnight bag.”

Sherlock thought it was nice to be tended sometimes. He rose, too, stripped off, and put the extra pair of boxers on. He stepped over to see Elena, who slept on. “Busy day, baby girl,” he murmured to her. “But everything’s fine.”


	7. Thinking

John really didn’t want the surgery.

“It’s unnecessary,” he snapped at the smug doctor. 

“You’ll recover more quickly,” Mary said. “And you’ll be ready for our wedding... and our honeymoon.”

John looked at Mary. “That’s true, but it’s a risky procedure for a little bleeding. I could heal just as well in two to three weeks, without the risks.”

“Would you be ready for a honeymoon in a week?” Mary asked coyly.

John considered. “Perhaps, perhaps not. It’s a risk.”

“Please, John?”

John rolled his eyes. “Apparently, I can’t deny you anything.” He glared at the smug doctor. “If I turn into a vegetable, I’m haunting you.”

“Deal, doc.”  
…

Elena’s howl of misery woke them both at 6 a.m.

“Ha!” Irene said. “Six hours!”

Sherlock stumbled out of bed, took Elena out of her carseat, and snuggled her. He picked up the diaper bag with his other hand and flipped it open, finding the diaper mat, a fresh diaper, and wipes. He lay her down, cleaned and changed her, as she looked at him with large tears in her eyes. His heart, already full, spilled over as he saw her misery.

“Poor lovey,” he crooned. “Lonely in her car seat, full nappy, empty tummy. It’s so sad.”

Irene looked on, her heart full, too. She sat up, flipped the velcro on her nursing bra down, and reached for Elena as Sherlock handed her over. Irene relaxed, letting her milk come down, and set Elena on her left breast. Sherlock watched as Elena fed, and Irene closed her eyes as she leaned against the headboard. Elena drained one breast, and Irene switched her to the other one, refastening the velcro on the left. Sherlock reached up and stroked Irene’s hair, saying nothing as Elena finished eating. 

She detached herself, and Irene stroked her cheek. Sherlock shifted, pulled a burping cloth out of the bag and flipping it onto his shoulder. He took Elena and bounced her lightly on his shoulder, rewarded with a huge burp. He grinned, bounced her a little more, and she gave him a small burp. 

“Good girl,” Sherlock said. He pulled a small blanket out of the diaper bag, lay it in the middle of the bed, and laid Elena on it. Then he and Irene scooted down to watch her as she played with her toes and babbled at them.

“What’s that?” Sherlock asked. “The Pythagorean Theorem? Yes, you’re very smart.”

“Oh, you want to see the latest at the National Theater? I don’t think you’re quite old enough for that, dear one.” Irene commented.

Elena babbled on to them, and they talked back to her. Irene felt wonderfully rested for having three hours of sleep in a row. Sherlock just enjoyed his girls.

“I wonder how old she’ll have to be before I can get her a chemistry set?” Sherlock wondered out loud.

Irene rolled her eyes again. “Tell him you want to be an artist, dear one,” she coaxed.

“She can be both scientist and artist,” Sherlock objected. “I play the violin.”

“True, and rather well, too,” Irene considered. “We’ll just have to see what her talents are as they reveal themselves.”

“I do think she likes talking, though,” Sherlock commented, “don’t you, lovey?”

Elena babbled back at him, making them both laugh.

His phone beeped. Text.

_John out of surgery. All went well. MM_

“Excellent,” Sherlock said. “John accepted the surgery, it’s been conducted, and it went well.” 

“Oh, good. We’ve been worried.”

“Mary will stay with him while he’s in the hospital, but would you like to stay, too?”

“Well, I’m not sure, Sherlock. There’ll still be a thousand details to see to for the wedding. I wonder if perhaps my talents might be put to better use in London.” Irene hesitated.

“Let’s talk to Mary today and see what she’d like.”

Sherlock thought about it for a second. “Yes, that’s probably best. I’ll feel better if I know John’s protected up here, though.”

“You’re only one person, Sherlock,” Irene said gently. “Even the great detective can’t spread himself that thin. If you’re worried about Elena and me being on our own for acouple of days, don’t. We have good security and Mrs. Hudson. And Mycroft, I imagine, if it comes to it. If you truly believe John’s life is in immediate danger, here’s where you should be.”

“What I need to be doing is figuring out how to remove the price on his head, because with it there, John’s going to be dodging would-be assassins for the rest of his life. The two we caught yesterday didn’t know I was alive, or they wouldn’t have tried it. Or been so stupid about it.” Sherlock steepled, thinking. “As I see it, we either have to convince the Sheik that John is dead, or that he’s worth more alive. Or that it’s not worth the effort it would take to kill him.”

Irene thought about a terrorist cell in Pakistan, and Sherlock’s masterful wielding of the machete that freed her and killed several terrorists, inspiring awe in the man. “Do you suppose the Sheik knows you’re alive? Your reputation is such that he might withdraw the bounty, should you make it known you’d take a dim view of your friend’s death.”

“Planting seeds,” Sherlock murmured.

“It worked before, to break up Moriarty’s network,” Irene pointed out.

“I need some thinking time. Wish I had my violin.” Sherlock lay back down, curling up around Elena, who was babbling to herself. “Want to go for a walk, lovey? We can let Mum sleep a bit more.”

“That would be lovely, Sherlock.” Irene stretched. “Another hour of sleep and I believe I could run a marathon.”

Sherlock smiled at her, and rose to dress. “We’ll leave you to it, then. I have found baby bouncing as effective as violin playing when it comes to thinking.”  
…

The one problem Sherlock hadn’t foreseen was how everyone--even these early morning joggers--had to stop and see the baby. Not that his little girl wasn’t the most beautiful baby in the universe, but pausing every few minutes in their walk to show her off wasn’t part of his thinking plan. Eventually, he found a quiet spot in a local park and lay on the grass under the shade of a tree, Elena on his chest. She wasn’t all that interested in sleeping, and she was far more interested in her father’s face, which wore a thoughtful expression.

Planting seeds, Sherlock mused. Had the Sheik heard of Holmes? If he had, would he care? And would John’s status as his friend be used against him--or would it be an asset to him?

“More data, lovey,” Sherlock muttered, patting Elena on the back. “Must have more data. Do you suppose Mummy would mind if I took a trip to the Middle East and presented myself to Sheik to negotiate for John’s life?”

Elena babbled at him.

“Yes, that’s what I thought. She’d not complain, but she’d definitely mind.” His brain wandered a bit more. “I really just need to know more about this Sheik. And that mission. Which means interviewing John. And perhaps doing some background digging.”

Elena babbled again, and Sherlock grinned. “You really do love to talk, don’t you? You’re quite a good listener, too.”

Babble, babble.

“Yes, we should go back to Mummy. She’s had her hour...actually, a little more than that,” Sherlock said, glancing at his watch. “And I’ve got a plan. We need to go see Uncle John in hospital, lovey.”

He sat up gingerly, holding Elena, then rose to his feet, holding her in the scoop of his left arm so she could see out. “Let’s get back.”  
…

Irene dreamed of a hot night in Pakistan, a machete at her neck.

She knew she was about to die. She’d revealed all she knew about their organization to the British Secret Service when Sherlock guessed her password, and while she couldn’t blame him--she’d overplayed her hand--she knew her death was imminent.

The hot desert wind blew her robes, her head covered with a black wrapping. She texted a last goodbye to Sherlock. In her last moments, she wanted him to know she thought of him. Irene hit “send,” then handed the phone to her captor. She closed her eyes, waiting for the blow.

And screamed as it fell.  
…

Sherlock heard Irene’s scream as they approached the room, and flew to the door, Elena tucked securely in one arm. He used his key to let himself in, to find Irene sitting upright and shaking, her hands pressed to her mouth.

“Give me my baby,” she managed to whisper, and Sherlock handed Elena over. Irene hugged her to her chest, rocking her. Sherlock wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “You weren’t there, Sherlock. YOU WEREN’T THERE.”

“Where, Irene? What’s wrong?” 

“I dreamed of that night in Pakistan. Only you weren’t there, and I died.” Irene kept rocking Elena, who was starting to squirm a bit, alert to her mother’s fear. 

“But I was there, and you didn’t die. I kept track of you, Irene, because I loved you. Do love you. I couldn’t let you die.” Sherlock said it quietly, rubbing her back. 

Irene closed her eyes again, loosening her grip on Elena just a little bit.

Sherlock continued rubbing her back. He’d never seen his wife like this, deep-in-the-gut scared. “Irene, Irene, you’re all right. You’re safe. We’re married. We have this adorable baby girl. We’re fine.”

Elena wailed, and Irene’s attention snapped to her. “It’s all right, little girl,” she whispered, trying to be calm. “You’re safe. You’re loved.” Irene lifted Elena up to her shoulder, and soothed her, even as Sherlock soothed them both. Elena quieted, and Irene rose to set her in the car seat, sending the toys attached to it spinning for her. Sherlock watched as Irene dug through their bag for a shirt, underwear, pants. He didn’t quite know what to do.

Irene went into the bath and shut the door, presumably to get dressed in private. That stung a bit. He hadn’t done anything, had he? It was a just a dream. And in real life, he had rescued her. She wasn’t dead.

And while Sherlock had come a long way, he still stumbled sometimes when it came to others’ feelings. 

Then it hit him.

His clever wife had figured out he’d need to go to the Middle East again.

Sherlock knew that Irene struggled with deep feelings of insecurity and fear, feelings that had led her to protect herself using not-always-legal means. The relief she’d felt when one of the last ties to her past had been severed, six weeks ago, had sent her into premature labor. Luckily, that had turned out well. 

Why wouldn’t her subconscious give her fear in place of security with the knowledge that her husband would likely be going back to a place where she nearly died?  
In many ways, Sherlock was her security. Her protection. If he died, or was otherwise injured, Sherlock was dead certain that Irene could take care of herself and Elena. But she may never feel safe again.

Sherlock rose, going to Elena and spinning her toys for her again. She babbled. They were so happy to have her, it nearly made him incoherent at times. They needed to keep her safe, too.

Sherlock heard the shower running, and thought, good. Water therapy will help wash away the fear.

He texted Mary. _How’s John? Thinking of a visit. SH_

He spun Elena’s toys again, absently.

Beep.

_Swearing at his doctors. Please do come. MM_

Sherlock smiled at that. Good. John would up on his feet in no time. He heard the water stop, and spun Elena’s toys again. Elena’s eyes were drifting shut. He checked his watch. 9 a.m. She’d been fed and up for three hours before going down. Progress. He continued to watch her as she fell asleep in her seat, then gently stroked her cheek. 

Irene opened the bathroom door and stepped out, looking fresh and crisp in black trousers and a green fitted blouse. Her feet were bare; her hair was wet. Sherlock thought her the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

He went to her, tipping her face to his, and laying a kiss on her lips. “I love you, Irene. And I will take care of myself.”

She rested her head on his chest, and he drew his arms around her tightly, holding her as if he would never let her go.


	8. John's Story

John hated to admit it, but his head already felt better. The double vision was gone. He could still think coherently. And as far as he could tell, he’d been repaired and stitched very well. One more CT scan today to double check that all was well, and he’d be gone by tomorrow morning.

If Mary cooperated.

“Mary, I’m fine, see? Speaking coherently, seeing things normally. Look, nice, clean, white bandage.” John pointed to his head. “I’ll be fine.”

“John Watson, I am not going to allow you out of this hospital until your doctors say so, and that’s a promise.” Mary crossed her arms as she said it.

John rolled his eyes. “I’m fine.”

Mary sat on his bedside, and framed his face with her hands. “Please, John. Take care of yourself. For me.” She kissed him gently, and he responded to her kiss, placing his hands behind her head and urging her forward to meet his tongue. The gentleness fled, replaced by heat.

The clearing of a throat in the doorway made them spring apart.

“I see you’re getting the best of care, John,” Sherlock said lightly. He strode in, coat flapping, with Irene behind him, bearing Elena in her sling. 

“Timing, Sherlock,” John groaned, leaning back on his pillows. “Can’t you leave a man alone when he’s had a bashed in head. I was getting some … nursing... here.”

“Yes, I see that.” Sherlock shook his head. “Hello, Mary. How are you doing this morning? I can see John is in his usual high spirits.”

“I’m fine, Sherlock, thanks for asking. I could use some rest.” Mary yawned a bit. “And there lies the most stubborn man in the universe.”

“He can be a bit recalcitrant,” Sherlock acknowledged. 

“Sherlock, let the poor man alone,” Irene admonished, bringing Elena over to see John.

“There’s my girl,” John said with a coo. “How’s our girl today?”

“She slept a full six hours last night,” Irene told him. “She’s a happy girl today.”

“Wonderful.”

“All right, then, time for chit chat is over.” Sherlock said briskly. “John, I need to talk to you about your time in Afghanistan. Irene and I thought we’d talk over plans for this week with you and make decisions about the disposition of our happy little group.”

“I’m staying until John is released,” Mary said. “I know there are a thousand details to see to for the wedding, but all that really matters is that we’re both there on Saturday. I can handle a lot of it by phone from here, and according to the doctors, John should be released sometime in the next few days.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Irene asked. “We’re trying to determine if we should stay here, or if I should go to London, or what?”

Mary considered. “I think we just have the last minute things on Friday and Saturday morning, picking up the flowers and so forth. There’s nothing pressing over the next day or so, and since I’m off work now, things are easily handled.”

Sherlock looked at the women. “Why don’t you take Mary back to the hotel we found, Irene, and let her get some sleep. I’d really prefer for you to be with me up here while John recovers.”

Irene looked back at him, her heart and her worry in her eyes. “I’d rather be with you while John recovers, too.”

“Then it’s settled. I suspect you’ll need to go shopping. I don’t imagine you brought enough clothes and nappies for a few days.”

“Indeed I did not, darling,” Irene said with a smile. She kissed his cheek, neatly moving Elena out of the way to do so. “Come, Mary, let’s let these two talk, and get you some sleep. I’ll be using your card, Sherlock.”

“Make sure it’s not smoking when you return it,” he replied casually. He touched her hair and kissed Elena’s forehead. “Have fun. Text if you need me. I don’t plan to go anywhere today, but one never knows.”

She smiled at him, and with a minimum of fuss, their women left.

“Right, Sherlock; what did you need to know that you didn’t want them to hear about?”

Sherlock drew up a chair, steepled his hands under his chin, and prompted: “Tell me about the last mission in Afghanistan.”

“Not much to tell, really, and you’ll have had details in the file,” John said. 

“Tell me the story in your words. Take me through it.”

John closed his eyes. “You already know that I was part of an elite rescue squad. We were to tasked with missions that others couldn’t do, in-and-out, to rescue those the government decided needed to be freed from the Taliban or other groups. Military, Sherlock, means not questioning orders. We were told someone needed to be rescued, given the specifics. We worked out the logistics and went in. I was nearly always tasked with the actual rescue of the prisoner, because more often than not, they were in terrible physical condition. I performed emergency medicine.” He snorted. “I once removed a burst appendix in a cave.”

“You did say you were very good,” Sherlock commented.

“Yes, well, I had to be. I killed my share of prison guards. But that last mission.” John paused. “I have seen many things, and I know that humans can do terrible things to each other. But this Faroud Al-Hassein...he kept a harem, Sherlock. We were sent in to rescue several young women, mainly British and American aid workers, who had been kidnapped into his harem. My squad mates and I managed to get into the harem, and we got nearly all of them out. The girls appeared well cared for, aside from the repeated sexual abuse.” He said the last ironically. “But they told us one girl had been taken out that morning, for the first time, to Hassein. Her name was Jess. She had a friend in the harem with her who was nearly hysterical. She kept crying over and over that Jess was a virgin, that she should be led to Hassein at all. 

“I lost track of everything but the thought that I needed to rescue that girl. I broke off from my squad mates, racing down the corridors. I knew from the maps we’d seen where Hassein’s bedroom was. I burst through the doors there, killing I don’t know how many guards along the way. As I got there, though, I saw that I was too late. He was already in the act of raping her.” John took a deep breath. “I shot him in the head. He flew back, off of her. I wrapped a blanket around Jess, and hauled her up, over my left shoulder.   
“I was in a blind rage, knowing I’d been too late, so that’s probably why I didn’t see the infantry outside the door. He shot through Jess, hitting my shoulder, knocking my feet out from under me. Jess fell, screaming. I crawled over to her on one arm. She couldn’t bear to have me touch her. She didn’t want anyone to touch her. She’d been shot through the belly. She was screaming in pain, but she couldn’t stand to be touched.

“I’d lost my med kit somewhere in my race to Hassein’s bedroom. I didn’t have anything to stem her bleeding with. I didn’t even notice that I was injured until I realized I couldn’t use my left hand. One of my mates killed the infantry man, and he picked Jess up. We had to knock her out. I ran behind.”

John choked, silent for a minute. Sherlock let him have the time to collect himself, then prompted, “What happened next?”

“Oh, Jess was taken to hospital, patched up, and sent home to America. I was taken to hospital patched up, and invalided out. You know the rest of the story from there already.” 

“This Hassein was the son of a prince, a Sheik who found out you were the one who pulled the trigger on his son. He wants you dead.”

John opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock. “How did he find out it was me?”

“That’s something we have to investigate. And then we somehow have to figure out how to get him to lift the price on your head.” Sherlock leaned back. “I may have to go to the Middle East.”

“What does Irene think of that?”

Sherlock shrugged. “One thing about the Woman is that she understands the need. She doesn’t like it, but she can protect herself.” 

“You’ll want company.”

“Love it. But I’m afraid you’ve got a bashed-in head, remember? I seriously doubt Mary will allow me to take you to the Middle East to get shot at again.” Sherlock shook his head mockingly. “I would never hear the end of it.”

John snorted. “I suppose that’s true. Still, I don’t like the thought of you heading to the desert without someone to back you up.”

“What’s all this preoccupation with me having back up these days?” Sherlock wondered aloud. “Do you all forget that I’ve worked in many dangerous situations completely alone?”

“No, we don’t forget. We just care about you. None of us really wants to live through the grief we all felt when you ‘died’ the first time, Sherlock.” John closed his eyes again. “I know I don’t. I still feel like I could punch you all over again when I think about it.”

“I’m not sure how I found myself with actual friends,” Sherlock thought aloud. 

“Much less a wife? This is all her fault, I think.” John said, eyes still closed.

“No, it’s likely yours, John,” Sherlock replied. “Having a good friend made me understand the value of friendship. Of companionship. Without you, I suppose I wouldn’t have been open to even approaching the Woman.” He cleared his throat. “At any rate, having all these people around when I want to go off and do serious work can seriously cramp my style.”

John laughed, eyes still closed. “Don’t make me laugh. My head hurts.”

“You were just telling Mary you were perfectly fine.”

“She was fussing.”

Sherlock shook his head again. “I don’t really understand.”

“Well, you’ve got Mrs. Coo. She’d as soon kick you in the balls as kiss you, if she had to. Mary’s a bit more fussy than that. Softer.”

“I suspect life has been a bit kinder to Mary.” Sherlock stood. “Well, this has been useful. I think Irene and I will stick around until you’re out of the hospital. We can all drive back down to London together when you’re released. If I can, I’ll put off my trip until after your wedding. Hate to see you married without a best man. And I’d feel a lot safer with your honeymoon trip if you went under false names. Do you object to my setting that up?”

“You know how to do that?” John raised an eyebrow.

“The Woman knows people.”

“Well, then. If it makes you feel better. Might make Mary feel easier, too.” 

“Good.” Sherlock clapped his hands together, loudly. John winced. “Well, there’s a local officer on your door today, at least until Mary’s back. Get some rest. Heal, recover. I’ll need you at full strength when the game is back on.”

John closed his eyes. “Yep, still all about you.”

Sherlock grinned mischievously. “Obviously.” 

…


	9. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Misbehaving occurs. Also, this is the last of the pre-written bit. Writing ahead as fast as I can--but encouragement is gratefully accepted! :)

_Leaving hospital. Where are you? SH_

Beep.

_Buying nappies. TW_

_Location would be helpful. SH_

Beep.

_Figure it out. TW_

Sherlock grinned, and plotted a three block circle around their hotel, noting the locations of grocery stores and pharmacies. She needed nappies, yes, but also wipes, a few baby clothes, likely some hotel snacks. He noted three stores, thought about it, and headed for the Boots pharmacy nearest the hotel. The bell rung over the door as he walked in, and he saw Irene in the baby aisle. Her back was to him, and she was obviously bouncing Elena, who was starting to whimper. Sherlock came up behind her, leaned into the back of her neck, and said, “I win.”

She jumped. “Oh, Sherlock, don’t do that. You startled me.” Elena started to cry, howls of misery. “Elena’s hungry, I’m juggling the shopping and the baby …”

“Easily helped, love.” Sherlock took Elena from her, cuddling her down. Irene picked up a box of nappies and added it to the cart, along with nursing pads, burping cloths, baby wipes. She also took down a package of receiving blankets, another of onesies, and a third of rompers. Elena kept up the whimpering, tears standing in her eyes, but seeing her favorite person--other than Mum--helped. Sherlock talked to her, in low, soothing tones, while he watched Irene gather things they needed, take the cart to the sales counter, and check out--using his card. He saw her take a deep breath, and she picked up the two bags. As she approached him, he asked quietly, “Bags or baby?”

“Bags. You’ve got the baby.”

He nodded, and followed her out of the story, bouncing Elena gently and talking to her, distracting her from her hungry tummy. They had only a block to go before they reached the hotel, and Sherlock pulled out his key to get the door with his unoccupied hand. Irene carried the bags in, set them down, then collapsed into the reclining chair in the corner of the room. “All right, then Sherlock, hand her over so I can feed her.”

Sherlock brought Elena to her, and watched as Irene flipped open her blouse and pulled the velcro flap down off her left breast. She tried to relax and let her milk down, but stress was setting in. Elena tried to latch, but she was getting nothing, and she detached, crying.

“Sherlock, I can’t relax. My milk won’t come down.”

Saying nothing, he stripped off his coat and went to her. He massaged her neck, and then he gently cupped and massaged her breast. She sighed with relief as the milk came in, and re-settled Elena at her breast, where she latched, sucking hard. Irene sucked in a breath. “I waited too long to feed her. She’s almost hurting me, she’s sucking so fast.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you to your own devices,” Sherlock said.

“No, no. You need to do what you need to do, and so do I. I’m just stressed, tired.” Irene sat silently for a few minutes, and Sherlock continued to massage her neck and shoulders lightly. “I wish you didn’t have to go.”

“I’m not going to go right away, Irene,” Sherlock said. “I talked to John about it. He’d also prefer I didn’t go alone, and he’s not in a position to go just yet. We’ll do our best to protect him, and send him off on his honeymoon under false identities. Which I’ll need you to help set up. And when they get back? We’ll see what we’ll see. I’ll start planting seeds.”

She relaxed, marginally. Putting off the trip didn’t completely alleviate the tension, but it made her feel a bit better. “I’ll get on that. Right after I feed Elena. I hope she naps.”

“There’s time.”

Elena kneaded Irene’s breast with her little hands, then detached with a little cry of frustration. Irene smiled, then switched her to the other breast. Elena settled back in. “She’s so like you, Sherlock. Mind gets set on something and you can’t switch her off.”

Sherlock have her his half smile. “She does have two parents, you know.”

Irene smiled up at him. They both turned to look at their daughter, whose sucking had started to slow, her eyes starting to shut. Irene gently detached her, and she handed Elena to Sherlock, who deftly burped her, then laid her in the crib the hotel had provided while they were out. He tucked a light receiving blanket over her, then stroked her dark hair as she fell deeply asleep.

Irene stayed where she was, watching the calculating machine who was her husband fall even more deeply in love with his daughter. What a miracle he was. What a miracle she was. Tears filled Irene’s eyes as she watched him stroke Elena’s hair, his mind distant with thought. Hers.

“Sherlock,” Irene whispered. He turned to her. “Hold me, please.”

He went to her, and she rose. He put his arms around her, and she wrapped hers around him, and they swayed together. He hummed her tune to her, and they turned in time to the music.

Sherlock pulled back, just a little, so he could place a kiss on her forehead. She tipped her head back so he could reach her lips, and he settled into her. Their lips met, and her mouth opened so he could deepen the kiss. Their tongues met, and she hummed deep in her throat. Sherlock, encouraged, moved his hands to the front of her blouse while he kept up the kiss. He undid the rest of her buttons, and pushed her blouse off her shoulders. It fell to the floor of the room, and she reached up to push his jacket off. He broke off the kiss, for seconds only, as he undid his shirt and it joined their other clothes.

Their lips met again, and he circled her back to the bed, laying her down on it, and joining her. He kept up the long, drugging kisses as his hands roamed over her, massaging her breasts gently, offering her comfort and arousal.

She sat up just a minute to wiggle out of her pants and underwear, and laid her hands on his pants, feeling the arousal there as she unbuttoned him to help him wiggle out of his.

Naked, they turned to each other, laying on their sides, pressing skin to skin, letting their hands roam. Sherlock cupped her, gently stroking her nub, and she reached for him, stroking his penis with her hands. They let the arousal build between them until at last, unable to wait any longer, Sherlock lifted one of her legs to wrap around him, and entered her.

The position made their passion gentle, teasing, and slow. He murmured soft things to her, and she kissed his chest, and then, in a sudden movement, pushed him over, straddling him in one smooth motion, and riding him. He held her hips with his hands while she moved over him, whipping him into a frenzy, making him pant with the effort of holding back so that she could enjoy a climax. It came with an explosive rush, her muscles bunching around him, milking him as she struggled to stay silent. He bucked under her, once, twice, then with a growl in his throat, he came, hard, the veins in his neck standing out with the effort of it.

She collapsed on him, pressing her lips to his so that he could give into the shout that wanted to spring through his throat with his release. She lay there, her lips fused to his, as they both trembled with the aftermath.  
Irene moved down to kiss his neck and snuggle into his shoulder. “That’s what I call getting reacquainted,” she whispered.

“Yes, Mrs. Holmes."


	10. Denoument

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein some things are wrapped up and our heroes head to a wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've wrapped it up at the end, with two more lines. I think this is probably the end for this series. Thanks for reading! PF

The next few days passed slowly, as John complained about being in hospital, Sherlock started planting seeds in the Middle East, Irene helped Mary with last minute wedding preparations, and Mycroft Holmes paid a visit.

“Well, Sherlock, it seems you may not need to go very far at all to resolve the situation with John,” Mycroft told him, sitting next to John’s bedside. For a change, Irene and Mary were off on an errand, leaving Sherlock and John to themselves to talk with the elder Holmes.

“What do you mean?” Sherlock asked.

“What did you call it? Planting seeds?” Mycroft smirked. “The sheik has made it known through other channels that he no longer seeks the head of John Watson, so long as he is left strictly alone.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Strictly alone? Is that possible?”

“It might be,” Mycroft said.

John looked at Mycroft, then at Sherlock. “Right, then, what don’t I know?”

“Mostly that there are a number of cells in the Middle East that would rather not deal with my little brother personally,” Mycroft said, examining his fingernails. “I’m so proud.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, but is the Sheik involved in anything that would require him to not be left alone?”

Mycroft shrugged. “Actually, his presence in the area helps to stabilize the region there. We’d prefer him to stay, so long as he lifts the bounty on John.”

Sherlock looked at John. “I’d say it’s your call, then, Captain.”

It was John’s turn to roll his eyes. “Well, as long as my country says they need him, and he’s not planning to kill me or have me killed, I’m fine with leaving him alone.”

“It’s settled, then,” Mycroft said calmly. “But we will, of course, keep an eye on him.”

“Of that,” Sherlock intoned, “I have no doubt.”

***

“Quickly, now, quickly!” Irene called out to the decorators swarming the banquet hall in the National Portrait Gallery. “The bride and groom will be coming shortly to inspect the space before the dinner.”

“Yes, Mrs. Holmes.” One of the number detached herself from the swarm and made her way over to Irene. “We’re nearly finished. It should be perfect for the wedding brunch tomorrow.”

Casting a critical eye over the space, Irene had to agree. While neither John nor Mary wanted a large wedding, they did want an elegant and fun space for their reception. The hall was perfect. Small, circular tables were spaced evenly down the gallery space, draped in ivory linen and topped with fine china and silver. Crystal vases of Gerbera daisies adorned the center of each table, and long ivory tapers, ready to be lit, rose up from silver holders at each table, which could seat six.

The head table, as the only rectangle in the room, faced the others, and was decorated similarly. There would be no dancing tomorrow; just a lovely brunch after a bright morning wedding.

“It’s perfect,” Irene sighed. “Just want John and Mary wanted.”

“I’d agree,” Mary concurred as she wandered into the space. “It’s fun, elegant, and beautiful. I can’t wait for John to see it.”

“Isn’t he with you?” Irene asked.

Mary shook her head. “No, he and Sherlock had to take care of something. They’ll meet us at the restaurant for dinner. With such a simple ceremony tomorrow, there’s hardly a need for a rehearsal, especially since we just went through this with you and Sherlock a few months ago.”

“Mrs. Hudson has Elena,” Irene said. “So it’s just the four of us for dinner, I think.”

“Shall we, then?”

“Let’s.”

***

“Seriously, John, why are we wasting our time here when we could be, I don’t know, spending time with our lovely ladies?” Sherlock didn’t quite understand the sentiment.

John ignored him, slowly wandering down the alley by Bart’s. “I just wanted to remind myself of my mortality, Sherlock.”

“Well, that’s a bit morbid, don’t you think?”

John snorted. “S’pose so.”

“I mean,” Sherlock continued. “If you like seeing your own blood spatter patterns on concrete, that’s one thing, but it’s quite another to see them just for the sake of making yourself crazy.”

Another snort.

Encouraged, Sherlock added, “There’s no point, anyway. I had it cleaned up.”

“You had it cleaned up?”

“Yes.” Sherlock pointed out the area that John’s head met the quid-filled sap. “Right there. Wouldn’t do. Wouldn’t do at all.”

John looked around at his friend. “You sentimental fool.”

“Never.”

***

Saturday dawned bright and clear, a blessing of a sunny June day. Mrs. Hudson again took charge of Elena as Irene left for Mary’s home and Sherlock helped John, who had spent the night at 221B, into his dress uniform.

“Haven’t needed help with this thing in some time,” John commented.

“Yes, well, it’s not every day my best friend gets married,” Sherlock replied. “I need to feel somewhat useful.” He smoothed the back of John’s jacket and reached for the accompanying hat. “Here.”

“Yes, thank you for handing me my hat. Very useful, that,” John quipped, placing the hat on his head and adjusting it to the perfect angle. “There.”

  
The pair set off downstairs, where Sherlock hailed a taxi, and the two of them set off for the chapel.

xxx

One beautiful ceremony and huge party later, and John and Mary were off on an Italian honeymoon.

Life, John thought, could not get much better than this. 


End file.
